


Free Skating

by karuvapatta



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Auguste Lives, Ice Skating, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-09-01 17:54:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8632750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karuvapatta/pseuds/karuvapatta
Summary: Laurent trains too hard. Damen cares too much. Neither of them will admit it. 
(Modern Ice Skating AU)





	

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't been able to write much lately, but then _Yuri On Ice_ happened and... Well.
> 
> In conclusion: go watch _Yuri On Ice_ if you haven't already :D And I hope you'll enjoy this ficlet!

He flew.

He forgot the tension in his sore muscles and the blisters on his feet. The wind rushed in his ears, obliterating all thought. He spun, taking the world with him. It was golden, breathless, wonderful; but then gravity caught up with him, and even before he hit the ice, he knew he was going to land badly.

His ankle caught the worst of it, the rest of his body following soon after. He felt the impact in his hip, his elbow, all the way to his chattering teeth. All air got knocked out of his chest, and strength fled overworked muscles. He could not get up.

Laurent breathed, while above him electric lights swam in a truly concerning fashion. Perhaps he hit his head after all—no, he hadn’t. He would have remembered it.

Well, it would be nice to stay like this. On his back upon the ice, with the cold seeping slowly into his skin. Nice, but foolish, and ultimately needlessly melodramatic.

He got up. It was only a matter of resolve: his body, sluggishly, obeyed. The simple act of standing up made his legs shake, but he _would_ stand, and he _would_ walk, and—and maybe he could try the jump again, one last time. He had managed it several times today, there was no reason not to bring that number up to his usual standards.

“Laurent.”

Legs already poised to propel him forward, right arm outstretched in an arch, he froze nevertheless.

“Damen,” he said without bothering to turn around. “I asked not to be disturbed.”

Damen, the arrogant asshole, refused to leave.

“How long have you been training?” he asked.

“About an hour,” Laurent said.

A slow, deliberate hand movement, to direct the rest of his body; three slides forward, and then a turn, gliding upon the ice, feeling the rhythm of the music. He really was tired, but one more jump—

“Stop,” Damen’s deep, commanding voice ripped him right out of the zone.

Laurent spun around to face him, kicking up a snowy mist.

“Is there a reason you are not with Auguste right now? Doing what you’re paid to do?” he asked.

“Yes,” Damen said. Uncertainty did not become him, but there was a confused frown on his forehead, dark eyes scanning the wall in search of the clock, before coming back to catch Laurent’s gaze. “It’s past eleven, our session concluded long ago. And you’ve been here for hours.”

“Feels longer, now that you’re here,” Laurent said calmly.

Damen’s full lips curved into a smile, and he said, “I don’t know why you even bother practicing. All you need is your winning personality.”

“I’ve been told I’m an acquired taste.”

“That’s got to be one of the nicest things I’ve heard said about you.”

Was it? Damen wasn’t overly invested in the world of figure skating. If anyone talked about Laurent around him, it had to be Auguste himself—

“Come on,” Damen said. “I’ll drive you home.”

“I did not ask you to.”

“And yet I’m going to. Annoying, isn’t it?”

Laurent shrugged his shoulders, dismissive, and skated forward. All things considered, it had been a few long hours. He did not think his ankle could hold him for much longer, and it was vitally important that Damen would not see him fall.

***

Later, once he peeled the sweat-soaked sock from his foot, he realized he might have truly overdone it this time. It was bruised, and blistered, and ached all over. But hopefully he hadn’t sprained his ankle or torn anything—the range of movements seemed to be preserved, although it hurt like a bitch.

Because the universe had it in for him, at this point Damen entered the changing room, and stared.

“It’s nothing,” Laurent said pre-emptively, towelling the foot dry. “I’ll be ready in a minute.”

Damen gave a deep sigh. “At least let me take a look at it.”

Laurent, fed up with this man and his arrogant entitlement to all things Laurent, crossed his legs and sat back.

“As you wish,” he said coolly. He would not move an inch. Let Damen do with that what he will.

He could catalogue every emotion on Damen’s expressive face: anger and frustration, both of which were easily triggered by Laurent’s presence. They had to pretend to be civil around Auguste, who for some reason thought the world of Damen. But here, in private, Damen made no secret of how much he despised both Laurent, and his self-proclaimed obligation to take care of Laurent whenever Auguste wasn’t available . And Laurent was never tired of reminding him that this was a particularly foolish duty to undertake.

“Have it your way,” Damen said. “That’s how things are supposed to play out, right?”

Then, to Laurent’s shock, he actually went to his knees.

Laurent remained motionless, back ramrod straight. Damen approached his task methodically and without meeting his gaze. He took Laurent’s bruised, aching foot between his large hands, strong and sun-brown. His fingers were firm and gentle, palpating the joints and the overworked muscles, and then guiding them through simple and non-strenuous motions. Perhaps it was the warmth of his skin, but it seemed to be aching less when Damen did what Laurent had himself tried to do only a few minutes ago.

“You ought to rest more,” Damen said, quiet and self-assured. “I know you don’t feel it yet, but all the microtrauma will catch up with you some day. You may not be able to skate again.”

“That’s fascinating,” Laurent said. “How many times have you been hit in the head this week?”

A small smile curved Damen’s lips.

“Hey, I get paid for giving advice, not for following it,” he said. “And the answer is zero. You think I let anyone hit me?”

He looked up at Laurent with a cocky grin. His teeth were very white, Laurent noticed.

“Brute,” said Laurent.

Damen’s preference lay in close physical contact with others, and the sports he favoured were brutal and competitive, most often played in teams that he would, inevitably, lead; Laurent’s ideal was an empty skating rink.

He realized, belatedly, that Damen’s warm hands were still on his foot, kneading it in all the right places. Perhaps – and his mind ran with the thought – it would be nice for him to continue upwards, to Laurent’s stiff calf—

“Thank you,” he said sharply. Damen recognized the dismissal and stood up.

Laurent’s skin prickled where, moments ago, it had been touched. That, too, he chose to ignore.

***

They drove in easy silence. Damen’s eyes were on the road ahead, and Laurent’s were on the passing streetlamps and late-night ramblers. He had planned to take the bus, and then make the long trek back home on foot, and felt uneasy gratitude that he could lounge back and lounge in the comfortable heat of the car.

It was pleasant, in a very monotone way, to drive through the night. The engine hummed and the music played, softly, in what could have been Greek. Damen’s French was near-flawless, but he probably missed the sound of his native language. Laurent almost asked him about it, but felt like this would be overstepping the boundaries they had set for themselves.

Eventually, they reached their destination. Damen parked the car and killed the engine. Laurent didn’t move.

“You have a competition coming up, don’t you?” Damen asked. “Auguste told me.”

“A minor one,” Laurent said.

“Would you mind if I came around to watch?”

“It’s open to the public. Anyone can come,” Laurent said.

“Ah,” Damen said. “So you _are_ nervous. I thought nothing rattled you.”

Laurent blinked at him and said, carefully: “Maybe. A little.”

“It’s okay to be nervous,” Damen said, with his damn earnest dark eyes and damn earnest smile. “But you cannot overwork yourself like that. Training is not meant to be a punishment.”

“I’m not overworked,” Laurent said. “And I appreciate your concern, but you’re not my coach.” _Or my friend. Or anyone to me._

“From what I heard, you don’t listen to your coach anyway,” Damen said. “Or your brother. Or anyone, for that matter.”

“So what made you think I’m going to listen to you?”

“I figured it wouldn’t hurt to try,” Damen said. Yet again, Laurent found it difficult to look away, across the space between them set carefully like neutral ground between two opposing armies. He realized, suddenly, that it would happen someday: one will make the wrong move, and they will clash, and fall apart. He resented the finality of that thought, resented Damen for putting him in this position, and resented himself for this odd fascination with a near-stranger.

The need to put more distance between them was visceral, sudden; it made his motions jerky and needlessly aggressive, as he got out of the car and grabbed his bag from the trunk.

“Thank you for driving me back,” he said to Damen, who turned around to watch him leave. Then, because he felt his tone had crossed that invisible line, he added: “Really. I mean it. You’ve been very kind.”

Damen’s smile made his heart beat unsteadily.

“You’re welcome,” he said. “See you!”

“Bye,” Laurent said.

He turned and walked towards the front door, thoughts still swirling around Damen. Once they settled, he would calmly assess the man’s behaviour and possible motives and, hopefully, work out the correct strategy. Alas, he found it difficult to think while Damen was around. It would be best to avoid his presence in the future.

The light was on in the living room. He heard two voices.

“Laurent!”

Auguste came to greet him, manoeuvring the wheelchair confidently through the narrow space. They had to make some serious renovations to accommodate him, but not much could be done about the cramped vestibule.

To his credit, Auguste drew him into an embrace before he proceeded with the scolding – it was after midnight and Laurent had classes in the morning, honestly, what was he _thinking_ – while Laurent wondered, not for the first time, if he’d ever stop being grateful that he still gets to hug his brother.

“I’m not that late,” he muttered, while Auguste cast him a cold and unimpressed look.

“Suit yourself,” he said. “We’re almost finished here—“

Laurent followed him into the living room, bag slung over his shoulder. He needed a shower, badly, and some last-minute reading before he could fall asleep. Perfect excuse not to dawdle.

The table was half-buried under financial reports, legal documents, and two laptops. There was a bottle of wine and two glasses.

“Laurent. You’re late.”

“I’m sorry, Uncle,” Laurent said. “I was busy.”

He stood perfectly still under the cool, disapproving glance.

“I had hoped you might start showing more interest in the family business,” Uncle said, sipping wine from his glass.

The look Auguste shot him was anything but friendly.

“Laurent will have plenty of time for that later,” Auguste said. Since their uncle was still focused on being disappointed in Laurent, Auguste managed to mouth _It’s really boring_ without him noticing.

It made him smile. He counted it as a victory.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Laurent told Auguste, heading off towards the stairs.

“Or I will see _you_ , armed with a coffee and from a safe distance away,” Auguste said cheerfully.

They bid each other good night, and Laurent climbed the stairs. He held his breath until the door was shut firmly behind him.


End file.
